heatwave
by 19q
Summary: in response to the heatwave prompt


heatwave

* * *

Heat.

Scorching, endless. Wave upon wave, searing through her skin, boiling her brain.

Hottest spring on record for coastal Pakistan, Karachi hitting highs of well over a hundred degrees. Just her luck.

A bead of sweat forms. And another.

Under her headscarf, drips down her ear, her neck. One drops on her eyelash, stops for a moment to refract the colours of the market - fruits, clothes, animals, people.

Five minutes until her contact's supposed to show, hundreds more drips. She wipes one away, looks around pretend-casually, scans the scene.

There. She sees him, distinctive pompadour, approaching, walking his way past market stalls. Pretends to not watch him, looks away in case anyone is watching.

There again. The other direction. Something else. A man, skinny but fat, draped in new salwar kameez, neutral colours, nothing to draw attention. But something is wrong.

Spidey-sense tingling, gut screaming. She senses the sweat on his brow, his finger on a button.

Calculates the possibility she's been made, thinks there's always the chance of pure coincidence. Doesn't matter now anyways, heat all around, pulsating in her head, through her body. A moment in time, death walking towards her, nothing to be done.

Looks again, knows she's right. It's in his gait, tied up in his body; tense, purposeful, nervous as fuck. She would bet her life. Is about to.

Everything converging into one moment under the beating sun. Drips of sweat, drips of time, melting together, coming to a singularity. Everything beating in time with the pulse of the heat, beating in time with her pounding heart. It starts to unfold but no one else sees.

Carrie runs, towards her contact, away from the strangely gaited man with his hands under his shirt. Time is slowed by the heat, by the moment.

She hears a voice in her head, swearing, flipping out. Quinn, she realizes, but not real. No earpiece, all in her mind. Breathes, thinks he's safe. He is backup, should be well clear of a suicide blast radius.

She feels eyes, the eyes of death, on her back. Again there's his heat - of hate, of rage, of fear. The reaper moves his arm, keeps walking.

She keeps running. Now everyone is running. Men, women, children, everywhere, scattered, soaked in sweat and terror and sun. Market stalls pushed over, chaos strewn about.

Then it hits. A heatwave unlike any other.

Immense destructive heat engulfs every sense. Wave upon wave. A tsunami of hair singeing, skin burning, concussive intensity.

It presses against her back, raw power. But it's not totally foreign. She knows this heat, it's like the fervour that comes with her mania, the push she uses to stand up to the world. But this, this is more. this is the explosive heat of hatred, of death.

It's impossible to fight it. Carrie lets it take her, carried on a fiery gust. Time crawls, she's in the air. A man flies by, her contact? She reaches for him but he's gone. Others fly by, slip away, everything out of her grasp.

Suddenly stopped by something solid. Shoulder, head to concrete.

Then pain. Deep, fierce, pervasive. Everything dim, slipping away. Voices, sirens, screaming. Close but far.

Always the heat, baked into the ground, pressing up through her, irradiating her cells.

Then darkness, nothing.

* * *

Blistering fingertips, pressing on her artery, feeling for a beat.

Quinn's wearing a face she's never seen before, pure panic, dripping sweat. He exhales when her eyes flutter open; has the breath of a dragon, fiery and intense.

When he grasps her shoulders, there's a shake in his hands. And his eyes, there's something there too.

"I'm fine," she says, half-believing it to be true. Looks around, sees blood, visceral flesh. Screaming everywhere, ringing in the air, sonic waves in her ears.

Inventory - head hurts like a motherfucker, shoulder sore but whole, back pain, nausea. And searing skin, feels aflame, her cells on fire.

She thinks it's what saved her, the heat within her. Protected her from the blast, merged and joined in, carried her through. Ridiculous thoughts, the fucking magical thinking of mania. But what else to think?

Looks around. Smells burnt skin, hair. The acrid odor of death. Arms, legs missing, strewn around. In every direction, surrounded by pain, blood, gaping wounds, dying people, ones already dead. Sees things she can't unsee, future nightmares, flashbacks.

But she's in one piece, all limbs intact, brain fuzzy, pulsating, everything so bright, hot. It's all her fault, she brought the contact there. Wonders if he's alive. Wonders why she is. So much screaming still, surrounded by wails, dying souls, baking in the relentless heat.

Survivor's guilt, she knows. Why not me. When I deserve it, when I bring the heat.

Quinn's still shaking, looks worse than her. Pale, sweaty, drenched in fear. Arm against her back, around her shoulders, eyes on her. She feels his gaze, laser sharp. His spare hand is twitchy, nervous, tries to check her face, her head, everywhere.

She pushes away, stumbles then stands. Wobbles, balance is fucked.

He yells, tells her to sit down. She carries on, does her best on her shaky faun legs. Walks off, needs to see it, feel it.

Sobbing, screaming, crushing layers of sound, of pain. She walks towards the epicentre, blackened, seared hot land, caked in blood.

When she gets there she doesn't know what to do. Just stands and looks, witnesses the damage. Bodies, limbs, carcasses of cars, flames still licking at buildings. This is the damage that's done, she thinks. The cost to lives, to people. Is she making more or less of it with the things that she does?

Often impossible to know, only have faith that it matters, that she's trying to do good. But faith is running thin, her own government so often at fault.

Contacts, tidbits of information, merest possibility of stopping an attack. That's what this is all for. To stop this. Which happened anyway, which could happen any day. Which does happen more days than it should.

She feels him before she sees him. The heat of another body, even one so cool as he. He approaches cautiously yet loudly, as if not to startle her; stands uncomfortably close to her but managing to keep his arm off her shoulders. She knows he wants to, is impressed at his self restraint, at knowing she does not want it.

"It's not your fault," he says. Her exact thoughts, he somehow knows them. This happens, he's gotten close. She still resists, keeps space.

"I just heard, there were two other market bombings today, coordinated attacks. Fucking coincidence," he continues.

Carrie shakes her head.

"No coincidences," she says. "Could have all been a smokescreen to take us out."

Just for her, fucking stellar case agent, fucking valuable asset. Not a stretch. This is her, all her. All the death, destruction, hate. She killed these people.

Maybe it's not true but the thought gets stuck, zips about in her mind, can't lose it. She stands there, absorbs it all, the charred air, the embers around her. Damage control finally here, some medics, cops, but nothing will help. So many dead yet she's alive, left to suffer through life.

"Don't do this to yourself, Carrie," he says. "You know you don't control what they do. You're doing all you can do."

Struggling against an unending wave. This is her life, since her first episode, since the CIA, since Nazir, since Brody.

And that's what it is, she thinks. A heatwave to the horizon, endless heat of hatred, of anger, of struggle. How can anyone beat back the scorching sun? Why this effort in the face of a relentless wave?

Suddenly it's too much, the heat, her thoughts, surrounded by charred remains of humanity. It attacks her senses, the acrid air, the blackened ground, the screams of pain, the ashes floating by.

Overwhelmed, everything immediately too much. The shock of the bomb reverberates through her, she remembers and she's frozen. Stuck in the moment again, flashback to a feeling. Tells herself to breathe, is not sure she does.

She feels the sweat, a drip down her forehead, into her eye. Another drip on her eyelid, she looks through it, no colour this time. Just refracts the terror around, blurs the destruction.

She is stuck, frozen in the heat. It seals her to this spot, this moment, bakes it into her mind. She's caught in the shockwave again, feels the explosive heat of the bomb, relives the fire the of the moment.

Carrie forgets he's there until she feels his cool touch. He's done resisting, his arm on her shoulders, solid and calm. Already she feels him, he cools her down, dissipates the heat from her body, her mind. Says nothing, pulls her closer. Just breathing, existing.

Existing as two, hot and cold. She steadies, has felt this before. There's balance with him, a stabilizing force. Hard to imagine, he seemed such the dick.

Yet she knows it as truth, he pulls her back from the heat, when she's stuck in overdrive, in the fire of a moment. Reminds her not to fan the fire, to cool, to think.

He turns, faces her, one arm on her shoulder. She feels it coming, almost resists; then gives in, too tired to fight.

Quinn pulls her close, both arms around her, tucks her into him. She feels the heat diffuse between them, soaking into him, cooling her off in return. He puts his chin on her head, his breath riffles through her hair. Says nothing for a while, waits until they have matching heartbeats, calm breaths.

"I thought I'd lost you," he mutters, admits into her hair. His body, holding hers tight; she feels his emotions though his grip - terrified, stricken.

"Let it go, Carrie," he says. "Let it out."

So she does. Listens when she never listens. Relaxes into him, opens the mental floodgate. Lets it out, the latent shock, the new sense of fear, lets it all soak away into him.

He keeps his grip, tight, reassuring. Takes all she has, is still standing, hasn't wilted, withered in her heat, his coolness barely fading. She stays where she is, wrapped up in him. Sees a bead of sweat drip down his neck, watches it run under his collar.

Not so cool now, she thinks. The heat has finally gotten to him. This blistering force of temperature, of hate, of violence.

But maybe not. Maybe it's just this.

Him.

Her.

Because there's heat here too, she knows. Waves between them.

And like any fire it has a will of it's own.

Carrie wonders if she can contain it; then feels his arms around her.

Fucking unlikely, she thinks. This heat does not want to be controlled.


End file.
